Dark Side of the Moon 3 Wufei
by Bane's Desire
Summary: Something In The Way He Moves. There's a reason why Wufei acts the way he does, always striving for perfection, and he's trying to hide it from his fellow pilots. yaoi 1x2, 3x4


Dark Side of the Moon is a series of ONE SHOTS! This is the third story and it features Wufei, who is trying to hide something from the other pilots. These fics are different from the type of stories I usually write and you might not care for this different view of the GW boys, but it's been a whole lot of fun writing something different.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the GW universe, which means it profits me absolutely nothing from writing about it.

Dark Side of the Moon # 3 -Wufei

Something In The Way He Moves

By: Bane's Desire

The abrupt sound of the alarm clock announced the time as six a.m. and woke the slumbering teenager as it did every day at the same exact moment. The dark eyes opened, blinking away sleep even as his hand hit the off button, bringing silence to the room once again. There was no lazing in bed in order to contemplate how he felt or what the day ahead had in store for him, instead, the boy rose immediately to a sitting position and climbed out of the bed and stood next to it.

Quickly pulling back all the covers, he stripped off the sheets then reached for the covered box hidden beneath the bed. He pulled it out and lifted the lid from off it and removed a perfectly folded and fresh set of bedding from inside. With movements that were deliberate and exacting, he put the fitted sheet on top of the mattress and habitually began with the right bottom corner and moved in a clockwise direction to secure the sheet in its place. He made sure that each of the corners were perfectly molded to the mattress before he was satisfied and reached for the top sheet. Unfolding it on top of the half-made bed, the boy smoothed the high thread-count cotton fabric out so that it was as smooth and flat as the bottom sheet beneath it. When he was certain that it was centered, in perfect balance all around, he began to bend and fold the right and then the left corners with, neatly creasing the edge of the folds to sharp right angles, then tightly tucked in the excess fabric in standard military fashion. Satisfied with the results, he then proceeded to doing the same to the sides. When the top sheet was smooth and tight enough to bounce a coin off of, he moved to put the blankets on with the same eye to detail and perfection.

A glance to the clock showed him it was time to leave his room to begin his morning ritual. It was early, too early for the others to be awake, giving him full access to the bathroom. He took the top layer of clothing that he'd set on the lone chair in his room the night before and went to his bedroom door. Silently opening it two inches, he quickly closed it and repeated the action a total of three times, gaining a feeling of satisfaction that allowed him to open it fully on the fourth try and exit his room.

Entering the bathroom quietly, the door having been left open, he shut the door behind him, repeating the ritual three open-shut pattern, then set his clothing down on a small stool he'd bought specifically for this purpose and for this room. Turning to the sink, he turned on the water until he saw steam rising from the tap. From the cabinet beneath the sink he removed his toiletry bag and the sealed container within that housed his soap. Setting it carefully on the left corner of the sink, he unclasped the front and lifted the plastic lid to reveal the white cleansing bar. Taking it out with his right hand, he put his left palm under the flow of very warm water, turned it over, then pulled it out after it was completely wet. He then began scrubbing the top of that hand, moving the bar of soap precisely fifty times back and forth across the bronze surface to complete that portion of his cleansing. He then held his hand to the side, holding it as if he were offering his hand in a handshake, and began the fifty strokes to that side of his hand. When that was finished he moved to his palm, and then the left side with the exact number of cleansing strokes. Once he'd finished, he transferred the soap to his clean hand, then wet the other one and began to clean it in the exact same manner. His face came next, and every inch of it was washed with the same type of thorough cleansing. When he finished, he gazed thoughtfully at his reflection in the slightly fogged mirror over the sink with satisfaction, noting his roughed-up and red cheeks. He was now ready for his shower.

His body received the same detailed attention as this face and hands had, but because he'd followed the same pattern of cleaning for years, he didn't take as long as some of his teammates did when they took their turns in the shower. Wufei had discovered early on, after sharing a safehouse with the other pilots, that if he woke early in the morning, he could perform his morning ablution without the others being aware of the length of time he spent in there, thus avoiding their questions and teasing.

After fastening his tightly, pulled-back hair, not a single strand escaping or bunching, he dressed in his exercise gi, tied the black belt in a perfect square knot, then left the steaming room to claim his sword, neatly displayed on the wall of his bedroom.

As he opened the back door he saw that the morning was bright and the air was crisp and smelled fresh and earthy from the slight rain the evening before. The grass and surrounding landscape were damp with dew but it didn't concern or distract the Chinese boy as he'd already marked out his work area on the drier cement patio behind the safehouse. He stepped out of the back door and again quickly shut and opened it three times before closing it a final time.

He turned and climbed down the five steps, jumping the last one to make his descent end in an even number, again wondering with a bit of irritation why anyone would construct stairs in an odd number. Avoiding all the cracks the old cement surface had acquired over time, he went to the center of the slab, took in a deep cleansing breath and began his exercises. The movements of feet, arms and katana never varied from day to day, and the exactness of the pattern bought a strange feeling of comfort and a sense of calm that was difficult to find while fighting a war.

He moved gracefully from one set of movements to another, stepping over and avoiding any cracks he was in danger of stepping on. His sword swung in a perfect arch, then jabbed, turned and thrust expertly as the daily routine continued to be executed without a mistake. His movements brought to him a rare sense of perfection which most people would probably not understand. It was in doing his daily exercises, testing his abilities and perfecting the movements of his katana in consummate harmony with his body, that he felt whole. His confidence grew as he reached towards and meet his own exacting standards, feeling assured that if any master of the art observed his routine, they would no doubt declare it perfection personified.

It was exactly fifty-three minutes from the start of his exercise routine that he made his last move. He paused, sword poised above his head, the tip sharply angled to his left, and breathed in the clean, fresh morning air and enjoyed the feeling of the slight chill that resulted from the cool air on his heated and slightly sweat-damp skin. His mind quickly shifted to his next pre-determined task of going to the kitchen to start the rice cooker before he retired to his bedroom for twenty minutes of meditation.

As he moved around the kitchen, he heard a faint metallic sound coming above him. It was the beginning of a repeated squeak. Tracking the sound with his ears, he quickly determined the room it was coming from and immediately understood what he was hearing; Heero was awake and was insisting Duo wake up also.

Though Yuy had used many different tactics to rouse his perpetually late-sleeping roommate, waking Duo Maxwell in a sexual way proved to be the most successful and less stressful for all those living in the safehouse. From his observances, Duo Maxwell, never a morning person, usually came to breakfast in a less cranky mood after a sexual wake-up call in comparison to other times when his partner yelled at him, dumped him on the floor or poured water on him in an all-out attempt to get him out of bed. The memory of those mornings, where Heero had chosen an ulterior method of waking Duo up, were not good ones for any of the pilots. The Deathscythe pilot's crankiness on those unfortunate mornings were taken out on everyone present for the rest of the day. His foul mood brought them all to a similar conclusion that being a prisoner of OZ would be a far better alternative than having to endure Duo's day-long contrariness.

It came as no surprise when Quatre asked him to join himself and Trowa in speaking to Heero, more or less demanding that he be more considerate of how he woke up the American. Wing's pilot received their petition in his usual, dispassionate way, but apparently had no trouble complying with their request. They'd been enjoying Duo's good nature for nearly four weeks now, and Heero himself seemed to be less tense, more agreeable and content with his lot in life between missions.

After preparing the rice cooker and setting the timer, he went upstairs and headed for his room to meditate. Passing the room with the repetitive squeaking, he tried to ignore it and the other sounds coming from behind the cream-colored door, but it was hard to ignore that the squeak of the metal bedframe was faster now and low moans and encouraging murmurs were also audible. Despite his natural abhorrence for the mess the two were probably making of their bedding and the unsanitary act they were engaged in, Wufei found himself feeling genuinely happy for the two pilots. Their opposite personalities seemed to have met some need with each other, bringing them both closer to a point of being more sane. It was also obvious that their mutual attraction and sexual intimacy had brought about a sense of devotion between the two that seemed to grow with each passing day. He silently hoped the both of them and their blossoming relationship would survive the war.

Having passed the door, he continued to walk towards his room, approaching the door to the room the other two pilots shared. There were quiet sounds coming from behind that door also. He wondered about the two in there, if Maxwell and Yuy's obvious relationship was having an effect on his other comrades. He'd observed the covert glances Quatre and Trowa gave each other, appreciative looks that seemed to go further than friendship, but he couldn't imagine them doing the unsanitary and messy sexual acts that the other two pilots were engaged in on a daily basis. Quatre was as fastidiously neat as he was, and he wondered at times if the blond Arabian had similar OCD tendencies. The Winner boy, he'd noticed, was always immaculately clean. His clothes were spotless and ironed to perfection and his manners were impeccable. There was nothing slovenly or unclean about the boy, and those traits had earned him Wufei's respect, probably even more than his piloting skills. Quatre's mind was also sharp and clear and seemed meticulously organized. He thought things over carefully and thoroughly broke down a problem to understand it before attempting to solve it. He could certainly understand why Trowa Barton looked at the smaller blond with affection and admiration. He felt the same things for Quatre Winner himself, though he'd probably never admit that fact to anyone.

He passed the door and reached his own room, soundlessly opening and shutting the door three times before entering and repeating the action once he'd gone inside. He didn't even think about the repetition in his actions unless the other pilots were watching. He allowed himself some of his innocuous habits to continue when he was alone in the morning, finding it hard to keep from every OCD tick he'd accumulated from years of trying to deal with it and his anxiety. His fixation on numbers and some of his cleansing habits were easy to hide, even while living with the other four observant teens.

He moved to the place on the wall where the two brackets, spaced to hold and display his katana, were set. He wiped the blade with a red silk cloth, and then with reverence returned it to its place of rest, checking one last time for any fingerprints that might have escaped his eye. He knew there would be time later to give it a thorough cleaning, most likely that afternoon when he'd feel the need to escape the others ever watchful eyes and return to the quiet of his room. Once satisfied his sword was correctly placed, he turned and moved towards his closet, his mind shifting to contemplate the Heavyarms pilot.

He had recently decided that there was something very appealing about the tall and soft spoken teen who also seemed to be as equally clean and neat in appearance as Quatre. There was a scent that lingered around Trowa that inordinately pleased him. He'd decided it was the soap Trowa used to clean himself. The Heavyarms pilot didn't use perfumed shampoo, deodorant, soap or even cologne, having once stated that he had a sensitivity to such fragrances. His unique scent comprised the clean smell of pure soap, and it drew Wufei to him more than anyone else he'd ever known. The scent of the Heavyarms pilot in close proximity made him feel heady and almost giddy. He smelled fresh and clean. He thought that he could probably have sex with someone who smelled of soap.

Reaching his closet, he opened and closed the door three times before he reached down and took hold of the rolled matt he had resting in a tall white box set inside the right corner and brought it out. Untying the ribbon encircling it as he walked into the exact center of the room, which he'd measured out and marked with a dot of white chalk when he'd first arrived at this safehouse, and placed it on the floor then smoothed out all the edges until the mat lay flat. He centered himself on it and took up the lotus position before he began the steps to enter into a state of meditation. Breathing in deeply, he inhaled in his own scent and found a slight trace of perspiration coming from off his body and fought down the urge to run to the bathroom and begin his cleansing ritual. It would have to wait, he firmly told himself. He noticed then that the squeaking of the bed in the other room had stopped completely and detected the slight sound of two sets of bare feet padding down the hall towards the bathroom. He knew it would be a while before he could use the facilities again, and he fervently hoped the two would clean the bathtub after they were finished.

He calmed himself, beginning his breathing techniques once again, ignoring his discomfort at being in a less than immaculate state and knowing he had fifteen minutes left until the rice was done.

Hearing the buzzer go off downstairs, Wufei knew his time for meditation had come to a close. He rose from off his mat, refolded it as neatly as he did every day, and tied it off, making sure both ends of the black ribbon were equal in length. He put it back into the closet, silently closing and opening the door the required three times before he turned to the folded pile of clean clothes he'd laid out the night before. On top of them was his pill box. He took a moment to assess himself. He didn't feel his level of anxiety was elevated today, so he decided to forgo the pills that worked to keep him calm until a time when he really needed them. Stress and anxiety set his OCD off dramatically, but his supply of medication was running low so he was forced to take them sparingly and wisely.

He opened his bedroom door, three short times, before listening through the crack to the noises coming from the bathroom. The shower had just stopped and the murmur of voices continued, signaling to him that two of his teammates would be out soon. He looked at his clothing, loath to put them on without being clean of the small bit of sweat that had dried on his skin. He recalled his past therapy and began to follow the steps that were now deeply ingrained withing in order to help him deal with his anxiety. He began by attaching a number to the level of anxiousness he was experiencing about dressing in fresh clothing while not in a state of total cleanliness, knowing that his skin had bacteria on it from working out, leaving him with a feeling of being dirty. He decided he was experiencing a level five out of ten, then closing his eyes, he turned his thoughts inward. He had handled much worse than a level five before, he told himself, and he could handle it now... for a while.

The second step in his behavioral therapy was to determine what was going on inside his body. His heart was beating at a normal rate after meditating, and the small amount of sweat that had formed on his skin had dried. His gi had traces of dampness under his arms and around his belted waist, and though he knew it would hardly phase another living soul, it was really beginning to bother him.

He quickly determined he could withstand the feeling of being less than clean more than he could tolerate being in slightly sweaty clothing. He quickly shucked off his garments and neatly folded them, then set them in the plastic-lined laundry basket he kept behind the bedroom door. He covered the discarded clothes quickly then turned to the chair by his bed that was holding his folded clothes. He promptly put on his boxer briefs, lying on top of the pile, then his loose white pants, followed by his green t-shirt. His anxiety levels dropped considerably the moment he tucked his shirt into his pants, with no apparent wrinkle or unsightly fold of material marring the smoothness of either garment. He then decided he would be fine being less than his normal state of cleanliness until after breakfast was over and the other four had finished with the bathroom.

Turning to view his room to see that all was in order and in place, he left it, with the kitchen downstairs becoming his destination.

"Wufei, my man, how's it going this morning?" Duo's exuberant entrance into the kitchen was welcome, that was until he flung his arm around his shoulders. Wufei had to fight his natural reflex not to fling the arm off and toss the over-friendly boy across the room. It seemed the scowl of disapproval he wore in turning to meet the other boy's eyes was enough of a censure as Duo suddenly dropped his arm and stepped back, a slight look of hurt displayed on his face.

"Sorry, man. Guess I just got carried away," the teen with the wet braid mumbled and quickly turned away from him and moved towards the refrigerator. Wufei immediately felt badly about hurting the other boy's feelings. Duo was, after all, just being friendly. But it was hard for him to deal with the physical contact the American was wont to initiate. Part of his discomfort was from the way he was raised, where casual physical contact was not a part of his culture, and proper decorum and courtesy were measured as more important. The other part of him that protested the other's touch was his recent memory of the American covered in grime and oil from working on his gundam or other machinery. Duo wasn't an overly dirty person, but he didn't seem to be able to keep clean for very long either. No matter what task he took on, something usually ended up on his clothing or body. Still, Wufei's conscience was pricked at seeing Duo's disappointment at his response to his warm morning greeting. Before he could begin to rectify it, he noticed a movement from out of the corner of his eye and turned his head to see Heero at the kitchen's entrance wearing jeans, a snug t-shirt and wet hair, standing in the doorframe glaring at him, obviously unhappy that he'd spoiled Duo's good mood.

"I'm sorry, Duo," he began, going up to but not touching the boy standing in the open door of the refrigerator. "I didn't mean to be impolite. You know how close contact bothers me." They'd had that discussion several times with Wufei taking the cultural slant as his reason for not wanting to be touched.

"Yeah," Duo shrugged his shoulders with his causal reply. "I was just happy to see you and thought you looked kind of lonely here in the kitchen by yourself. Sorry I over stepped your boundaries." The whole time he spoke, Wufei noticed that the American hadn't turned from his search inside the refrigerator to look at him, clearly stating that his feelings were still bruised at being rebuffed.

"I have some rice in the cooker," Wufei offered as a form of a truce. "Would you like some? Or I could make you something else, eggs perhaps?"

Duo slowly removed himself from the refrigerator, then turned his head and eyes to search Wufei's expression. "I'd like a little rice," he said with a slight grin. "Is there enough for Heero to have some, too?"

Always making enough rice for several people each morning, Wufei nodded, secure in the knowledge there would be enough. "Of course."

A true smile lit Duo's face. "Thanks, man." He held the refrigerator open and stepped to the side. "Is there anything you need in here?" he asked.

"No," Wufei replied, wondering why Duo would ask that of him, he only ate rice for breakfast in the morning so there was nothing within the refrigerator he needed. "But if you'd get the bowls and silverware out, I'll check the rice."

Knowing his penchant for opening and shutting doors in an odd manner would make him conspicuous to the others, he tried to get them to do those simple chores for him in order to avoid rousing their suspicions regarding his condition.

Three large yet even scoops of rice were placed neatly in each bowl and it appeared the amount would be sufficient to feed the three of them. Duo happily took the filled bowls to the table that Heero had already set for them. Together the three ate their meal with light, unimportant chatter passing between them. Wufei watched with some amusement as Duo gently teased Heero throughout the meal, and noted the subtle signs of affection the Japanese teen held for the Deathscythe pilot as telling sparks of tenderness shone brightly in those deep blue eyes.

Quatre and Trowa entered the kitchen together as the dishes were being washed. Heero took the job of washing while he dried and Duo put them back into the cupboard. He was quite pleased at the method of washing Yuy displayed. He was thorough, making sure each item he picked up was completely clean and rinsed of any soap before he handed it off for drying, his fingers always careful in keeping to the outside rim. He dried them with just as much care before reluctantly handing them to the braided teen, not quite as concerned about how much of his fingers touched the clean dish. He ignored it, knowing it was good for him to acknowledge those things that bothered him and then choosing to live with it.

"Morning!" Quatre said brightly with Trowa giving them a brief smile in greeting. Wufei turned to give them a nod of acknowledgment. "We ate all the rice," he informed them.

"I feel more in the mood today for bacon and eggs anyway," Quatre said as he moved to the refrigerator. "How about you, Trowa? Is that good for you?"

The Heavyarms pilot nodded and took a seat at the table in order to stay out of the way of the otherwise busy kitchen workers. Wufei inwardly sighed. Winner was as neat as a pin, as usual, but when the boy decided to cook, the whole room became disorderly. He knew he needed to leave the kitchen in order to remain calm.

"How about all of us go to play some basketball this morning?" Duo piped up, always trying to get the five of them to work and play together. His innate need to be a part of a family, something that was tragically denied him in his youth, was readily apparent in his desire and attempts to create a pseudo-like family amongst the pilots. Recognizing his need, the four of them usually gave in to Duo's simple requests for doing something together, knowing that in doing so, they made him happy. Unfortunately, most of the activities Duo chose ended in sweaty, physical contact.

His anxiety level rose at the thought of it.

"I have things to do today," he blurted out, sounding more harsh than he had intended.

"Come on, Wufei," Duo persisted, leaning against the kitchen counter top. His eyes lowered to see the other boy's hands resting on the laminate he'd just wiped clean moments before and resisted shuddering at the thought of the germs the braided boy was leaving there, not only with his hands, but also with the end of his long hair that was no doubt resting there also. "We don't have a mission for a few days. It'll be fun." the braided boy persisted.

He frowned, thinking hard as to how he could get out of the activity that Duo was pushing for. "I said I have things to do, Maxwell. You should be more respectful of that."

With that said, the kitchen fell silent. He turned and quickly left the room, not daring to look at the disapproving expressions on the other pilots' faces. He moved almost silently as he made his way through the safehouse to his bedroom.

He knew that to the others he appeared distant and aloof. They didn't know how much he appreciated their company or that their companionship was the only bright spot in the war for him. But he couldn't chance letting them see the real him, the dedicated warrior who struggled minute to minute with his obsessive compulsive disorder. His parents and clan had tried to hide his weakness, to train it out of him through his martial arts classes and intense education. He'd done everything they and the doctors had asked of him, taken the drugs and learned the steps to CBT, Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. He was better, but he would probably always have to work on reigning in his compulsive habits, at least some of them.

Preoccupied with his thoughts, he reached his bedroom door, opened and closed it the needed three time before he entered. He didn't even register the fact that he'd repeated the same repetitive action when he closed it behind him because his thoughts were centered then on the war and his part in it. It was imperative that he continue fighting. The honor of his colony, of his clan and his family rest heavily on his shoulders. If his fellow pilots didn't consider him able or fit enough for them to fight beside him, it would bring dishonor to not only himself, but to all those who had sacrificed so much in order to train him to defend their colony with his gundam.

He listened to the distant sound of voices downstairs in the kitchen, wanting to be a part of their conversation and camaraderie yet knowing that his prolonged exposure to the other four would eventually bring them closer to discovering his weakness.

He sat on the chair that had earlier held his clean clothing and sighed, feeling a surge of sadness welling up inside him. He was tired, so tired of being aware of his every movement, of everything around him, methodically executing every move he made whether it was looking for traces of dust and dirt on or around him, avoiding cracks in the sidewalk and even cleaning well past the point where anyone else would have thought they'd reached an acceptable level of cleanliness. It was sometimes exhausting. He sat there in weary contemplation, unable to lay on his made bed because to do so would mess it up and knowing that if he did, he'd need to strip and re-make it again. He considered his anxiety level at the moment, rating it as a seven, and decided he'd wait until the others left the house before he'd take another shower.

The End

Thanks, as always, to Aphreal.


End file.
